


Thrum thrum thrum

by jazelock



Category: Nexus Clash, Nexus War
Genre: Death is cheap, F/F, F/M, Gen, Multi, Temporary Character Death, WIGBL, Worlds in Global Battle Locked
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:48:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3623805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazelock/pseuds/jazelock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of all the Nexus War/Clash drabbles I've ever written and will write. In chronological order of writing, oldest/worst first. Which is a bad strategy for writing essays and doing anything ever. Chapter notes will indicate when chapters take place relative to each other.</p><p>Characters:<br/>Rynex, the Benevolent Scavenger<br/>Angelica, the Angel Slayer<br/>A voiceless venom, the Silent Laugher<br/>Cassandra, the Trojan Void Walker<br/>Flowey the Flower</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Angelica

She hated angels.

Hated them with a passion so strong that the delicate scars crisscrossing her body throbbed with the strength of her loathing. They called for more blood to be shed, voluntarily, and they promised to give her strength to spill the sacred scarlet drops of divine beings. Oh, many deaths lay at her door, she knew. It had not started out that way. Not exactly.

Her passion was searching. She had grown up quietly in a faction that took her in as she shivered on the streets of the mortal plane. They armed her with knowledge of the mystic and the arcane, and she hid in the corner of the stronghold to quietly gather her wisdom. She learned how to make the very earth tremble and come to her aid. But always, she found that rummaging through the littered floors of buildings thrilled her. To hope for that rare magical item, holding up each strangely contoured find to the light, holding her breath for the split second before she identified it. She searched for herself, then for her faction as they hosted visitors with special needs. But it wasn't enough.

At first, she vowed only to defend herself, to never kill unless the choice came down to her death or that of her attacker's. But her passivity, she soon found, did not satisfy a dark craving that rose up in the depths of her sorcerous heart. To watch the mortal shell of the one facing her writhe and fall into silence, each death adding to her strength. The relatively low amount of people who dared to attack her and have the tables turned on them fatally did not satisfy her growing longing. 

She flailed, her moral compass spinning wildly. Then came the day when disillusionment in one aspect of her life set her on the path she would journey down. She had trusted in her faction to always offer her a safe place to rest. Every day, or night in some circumstances, she stumbled home-home-exhausted, but trusting that everything would be fine in the morning. One day, she awoke face to face with death. Blood stained the walls. Pandemonium reigned as blades flashed in the moonlight and gunshots echoed in the small warehouse. They had not seen her yet. She pressed a hand carefully to the ground and called the earth to rise up. It obeyed, and her home's assailants flailed at the onslaught of dust and rock. Then one of them wiped the dirt from his eyes and ran her through with a sword.

_Do you choose to return?_

_Naturally._ And as she hurtled towards a new body that would contain her for a while, she remembered. She turned the memory over in her mind even as she opened her new eyes and oriented herself to return home so they could regroup and rebuild. Cold steel stabbing between her ribs. Curved claws gripping the hilt as it yanked the sword and let her body fall. Bloodstained teeth glinting beneath eyes that burned with the very fires of hell. So she altered her vow. She would kill, seek and catch unaware those that she could: but only those whose hearts were blackened and impure. Those who deserved to die.

She found wickedness not only in demons, but in mortals like herself as well. And somewhere along the line, she became fascinated with the core elements that made up the world and when they began calling to her, she accepted without hesitation. The earth no longer flew up for her, though it would if she ever ordered it to; it cracked and devoured for her. Fire refused to burn her and the air carried her wherever she chose to go. And water…water swept little bubbles of life to her face whenever she dove in, buoying her, never letting her fall. On land, she returned the favor by pulling the poison from the clouds above, cleansing her friend from pollution. The poison, she smiled contentedly, also worked wonders against her victims.

Demons fell before her. She tried, she really did, not to harm any mortals, but day after day, she would walk into an abandoned building and see the swords hanging at the hips of the slumbering soldiers. Memory would stir, of the bloody massacre at the edges of such steel, and her eyes would narrow. The acid corroding the wicked metal made her boiling blood calm slightly. So she gave in to it. After all, she justified as she whispered to the water in the heavens above, they would have done the same to her if their roles had been reversed.

She never saw many angels then. Even when she ventured through the glowing portals scattered through Valhalla, into bright sunny lands amidst the clouds, the heavens seemed deserted. The only beings she encountered there were the occasional brave demons that found themselves immune to the scorching light that should have seared their charred skin in agony. And those, well, she knew what to do with them.

A day in the Nimbus changed her mind. It was hard to sleep with the perpetual sunlight bearing down, but she had managed. She awoke in blinding pain and an instant later, found herself back in darkness again. Only this time, the darkness wasn't of sleep, but of something markedly more significant.

_Do you choose to return?_

Alabaster skin and a look of utter impassiveness on those achingly handsome features. A glowing sword-and here, she swore to herself that she would never wield one of those damn things-stained with rich crimson, her precious blood. 

Wickedness. Wickedness even in the hearts of the angels. It stunned her. It enraged her. But her vow… And in a moment of clarity, she realized that her vow still held. Those whose hearts were blackened and impure, despite the visage that they assumed, those who deserved to die would die by her hand. If she came upon a heart lusting for blood that was cloaked by an angelic form, so much the better. She smiled as the world lost another liar and hypocrite for the time being.

The Divine Champions and Seraphs, the Lightspeakers and Advocates; they fought her and she fought back with an equal intensity. All of them liars and yet they had found a way to manipulate the cosmos so that every kill blackened her soul in the eyes of those who could see such things. But one day they would see, that what she had thought was bloodlust in herself, was a need to purify, return the favor the earth had done for her and rid it of deceivers that walked its land. 

She spared the Shepherds and the Paladins that she encountered. The young were idealistic and hopeful; it was when they became empowered that power corrupted and absolutely. For now, she would give them their respite. Her very own faction housed these kind, and even an angel. Because her home had accepted him, she let him be. For the moment. She would watch, every time she returned to their stronghold, examine the calm face, and settle into the shadows to eye him still with suspicion. She was sure a warning stayed in her glance and almost equally sure that this was what kept him from acting in accordance with his true desires. She could wait.

She still killed demons and mortals, but her eyes always strayed from them, her hands damning them with absent waves. The water always swept her towards the islands of Valhalla where the scheming angels hid in scattered clusters. She still searched, but now her heart no longer leapt with the task. She handled items impatiently, watching the sun always, waiting for its light to vanish, so much the better to spot the glow of angelic beings unable to hide in the shadows. Even the darkness rejected them.

Angel slayer, they called her. A demon in mortal form. She wore such names with pride. Because one day they would see. They would all see…


	2. Midlife Crises

She's swimming forlornly near the edge, swirling a hand through the void carelessly. It might be regarded as a sheer daredevil act for her hand immediately starts deconstructing into vague molecules and then atoms. She yanks it back, watches swirls of shadows defiantly curl around her hand before dissolving away and restoring her normal appendage. Rynex shudders and pauses, then traces a finger into the darkness again. She is busy with her fascination of,  _not_  death, but pure nonexistence, that she almost does not notice the approaching figure, gliding silently through the waves.  
  
Almost.  
  
 _hisssss..._  She gapes at him, terrified. What sort of being was this, mortal, demon, or angel, that could not be harmed by the very poison of nature itself?  
  
" _The one who commands it, my dear._ "  
  
And then she realizes and her horror turns to a very different sort. She falls to her knees, not an easy task to accomplish in water. "My lord and master. I am so sorry."  
  
He smiles at her absently, then frowns at the clouds above and vanishes.  
  
Rynex stares at the empty space that he had previously occupied, now not even containing wisps of smoke to show that he had been there. Somehow... She treads the water absently, gazes across the blue towards the tiny spot of grey where she knows her family is. Somehow, she feels more empty inside.  
  
-  
  
 _Thrum, thrum, thrum._  
  
-  
  
She dances among the dead, the dying. Wherever she is, she cares little for the shifting of the planes, for there are always souls contained within fleshy coats of meat that are always ever so willing to scream for her. She is voiceless herself, nameless, as fitting as it should be for the rising star of chaos.  
  
Her touch pollutes the blood, causes it to shrivel and spew to flee from her in a hopeless attempt. Hopeless? The word is sweet to her ears.  
  
 _Ahg-nash-hazan_  
  
"DEMON!"  
  
It is not an angel this time, but she smiles anyways, stretching cracked lips and baring teeth too white. She tiptoes closer, stretches out a hand. Blood sprays, but she does not mind. Red is pretty, ever so beautiful.  
  
 _Ohr-gana-zaru_  
  
She caresses his neck for the briefest moment before her hand flies away from her arm in a mist of pretty pretty red. She does not mind, mind, the screaming and the crimson make up for the pain, and she does not really mind pain, does she.  
  
 _Azh-ki-ziha_  
  
Then a crackle, a flash, her hair sizzles and curls, but it is not that, not that at all. She...the screams have stopped. His mouth is open, a blackened hole, as he falls writhing at her feet but. She screams, her throat burns. SHE SCREAMS BUT SHE CANNOT HEAR SHE CANNOT HEAR. She falls, slamming her knees hard against the baked ground, screaming, selfish spiteful tears running over the ridges in her bone and skin.  
  
-  
  
 _Thrum, thrum, thrum_  
  
-  
  
She opens her eyes, sees the sigil in the sky. Feels the heat in the earth...  
  
 _"You know...You know that I love you, right?"_  
  
 _Thrum, thrum, thrum._  
  
"Who...?"  
  
Flash. Silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place close to the end of Nexus War. The beginning of the end, as it were. Rynex and AVV have both been around for a while. Cassandra came into existence right as the planes were collapsing, just before everything was swallowed by the void.
> 
> In order of appearance:  
> Rynex  
> A voiceless venom  
> Cassandra


	3. What Will Never Be

She hasn't changed. Perhaps she has immersed herself so within the elements composing these godforsaken planes that she has become like them. Ever the same, immutable. She stands still in her caretaker's shadow, quietly clothing and passing over supplies to the newborn. She still wears her mismatch of leather jacket, brilliant evening dress, and brass knuckles on each hand.  
  
More and more are coming in, and she has to work even harder to keep the faction safe up to date. Components left it, but potions were not given in return. The thought may have flashed across her mind more than once, but she never speaks it.  _Ungrateful brats_. Instead she walks up behind raiders on their doorstep and snaps her fingers for the earth to swallow them whole.  
  
- _still your heart says_ -  
  
She laughs less now, not true, less with her mouth, silently, but more and more in her mind, wild mirth where no one else can hear. Her body has grown; she is taller, strikingly beautiful some of her victims might've said, commanding. The only marring of her perfection is the long raw scar running the length of her throat, but that only garnered sympathy. The compassion of the good and holy who reached out to heal, right before she closed her fingers around their hands and  _pushed_. Only then perhaps did they see the motes of dancing fire in her eyes, laughing, insane.  
  
Each scream is sweeter than the last. Each corruption she produced, each twisting of the angels' pets into something  _far_  more interesting, each drip of blood that escapes her gems and slides down her fingers, slicking them in red. The planes are good to her.  
  
- _the shadows bring the starlight_ -  
  
She is the avenger. They called her demon and her visage testified to their classification. But she had heard the cries of the murdered, those whose lives had been cut brutally short. Especially the babies. Their wails piercing, their screams telling the most horrific tales. She had cried for them, with them, until she had no more tears to cry, and then tears of blood until she had no more eyes with which to cry.  
  
She stared into the endless void and they called her to avenge them. They would guide her hand; they would walk with her through the planes. They would not rest until all joined them and felt their misery.  
  
- _and everything you've ever been is still there in the dark night_ -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU drabbles for how I imagined the girls would've turned out if their lives in Nexus War had continued on. And on. And on.
> 
> Lyrics from "Those You've Known" from the musical _Spring Awakening_.
> 
> In order of appearance:  
> Rynex  
> A voiceless venom  
> Cassandra


	4. a bit late to avoid the rush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU where death is eventually permanent. Featuring Rynex. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. FOR REAL. SORT OF.

It was said that each of them would know when the time came. You reawakened and just knew instinctively that this was the last bit. No more do-overs, second (and fiftieth and hundredth) chances. It came to her after opening her eyes against the flutter of soft blades of grass. It was unfair; it was cruel. C'est la vie. And when she found the stronghold in an uproar of clashing blades and whizzing spells, she knew. Funny, in the midst of the chaos, he seemed to see as well. Looked over from his concentration on his undead army and blinked. Was there an aura she could not see that he could? Of course, he was the master of death itself, perhaps that was why.  
  
When she took the impact of the deadly gaze of the demon for a young, terrified mortal, she knew. This was it; her crushed ribs piercing her lungs told her so. She imagined his hand on her forehead, his distraught expression all for her, and she closed her ears against the sound of the blood and pounding. "Did I do well?"  
  
Maybe she could hope for an answer.


	5. The Poison in Our Veins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thar be sex, though not very explicit. Also violence, a lot more explicit than the sex. Features a voiceless venom and a character created by my friend Hawkysu. 
> 
> If I remember correctly, after all these years, this came about partially because we were talking about how his character liked to rip people's hearts out and eat them, and how the whole thrusting-hands-into-people-chests business was ripe for sex jokes. Also, talking about how these two insane characters would probably get along well in a crazy way.

"..."

She did not ask anything. Nothing of where she was, what had happened. She had learned long ago that such things were trivial and useless to spout aloud in empty presence.

"Haa."

Clara turned, slowly, not out of apprehension, but derision. Whoever dared laugh with such naïve glee at her perceived plight... She may have no clue where in the worlds she was, but never did she lose her footing. Her fingers wrapped around the smooth hilt of her hunting knives. She could already imagine the feel of warm blood running down her hand, maybe she would worm her entire fist into the hole and feel the little fleshy tubes rrip away.

The woman staring back at her grinned. She motioned, beckoned. Clara slowly raised herself, eyes never leaving the willowy figure. If the strange woman had been anywhere near as innocent as her features contrived to be, Clara wouldn't have bothered with stealth. Just lunged forward and stabbed. Watched the startled eyes turn fearful and then glaze over in the grasp of slow bleeding out.

Except this...thing, this inhuman creature had no eyes which she could watch. Where there should have been irises, pupils, or even the empty blackness of eyeless sockets, were twin dancing motes of flame. "What do you want?"

The manicured finger crooked.

"What, can't you speak?"

In answer, the woman's grin widened, baring perfect, gleaming teeth. She tilted her head back, arching her pale throat in what would normally have been a very stupid move. With the night's shadows no longer hiding her neck, the raw raised scar running the length of her throat was clearly visible to Clara even from where she stood, hand hidden behind her back still.

"Fine. Why the hell should I trust you?"

The woman spread her arms wide, hands open and empty as far as she could tell. Clara approached. "Right. Like I'm going to take that as an indication you're weaponless. What've you got in that jacket of yours then? You--" She pounced. All three blades thrust in front of her, even if two missed, the third would bury itself deep in soft soft flesh and she could drag it, cutting into flesh like paper...

A cold hand was on her cheek. Clara stared. She had not missed, all three knives deeply buried below the woman's left breast. She yanked downwards and heard ribs splinter and slice. Then the pain came.

It started a vague wave of pinpricks where those fingers met her face. Then the needles stabbed in and began scissoring. Clara held on grimly to her blades, jerkily yanking her other hand up to thrust into the hole in the woman's chest.

They crashed to the ground together. Something cracked. The needles were everywhere, her clothing had become sandpaper scraping away raw slices of her skin. She bit her lip until a thick stream of blood stained her chin.

The motes of fire did not become glassy, could not, probably. But they did flicker. And then there were teeth biting at her lip. Take advantage of the increased proximity, she tightened her fingers and drove her fist as hard as she could inwards. The woman hissed, a thin stream of breath drying the blood on her lips. Clara bit back, teeth ripping into the soft skin. She could no longer tell whose blood she tasted on her tongue, if it was not already a mixture of both of theirs. The night was growing blacker.

 _...You're different_ , the woman mouthed before Clara's vision went out.

_Do you choose to return?_

_Hell, yeah._

She woke up in hell this time, though there was no fire. But there were mountains of bone and the landscape lay covered with ice as far as she could see. The snow fell in frozen flakes that stung against her face. Clara walked across the white, hair whipped by the wind obscuring vision where snow did not, eyes straining. Her initial impression was wrong; the ice was punctuated occasionally by deep, bubbling pits of lava, a harsh red against the equally blinding white. So it was when she suddenly was no longer staring into endless white or blood red, but dimmer, more varied colors, she did not realise it until she was inside. The clang of metal deafened her ears. She turned and waited for her eyes to adjust, the blurry shape of looming iron doors detailing into sharp lines. It was then she snapped back around, and swung. The demon was swift. She was still grinning, still sporting the exact same attire, leather jacket, evening dress, minus blood. And now she unfolded--leathern wings and dove forward. Clara slashed the air before her viciously and rent thin strips of skin as the demon hurtled into her, slamming them both against the doors.

There were unrelenting fingers digging into her wrists. She snarled and tried to slash at the rough rope now rubbing against her wrists, only for the blades to meet bone and skin. The demon shook a finger of her free hand mockingly. _Ah, ah, ah._

"You think ropes will hold me? I'll rip your heart out like I did before," Clara sneered.

The woman licked her wounded hand, tongue working around each digit slowly. Clara found her reluctant gaze being dragged along.

 _Ah, ah, you're a naughty one. You cut me and there's red water coming out. You're not the first one who fights back, oh no, of course not. But I can see your soul and it's as black as my little moth. You like the screaming too. It's so pretty, isn't it? Like the pretty spray of red in firelight._ The woman gave one last lick at her mangled hand and smiled, teeth pink. _I would scream for you, we would trade like little girls with their little toys, but not anymore. It would be fun still, yes?_

"You're crazy," Clara said flatly, but still a smile tugged the corners of her mouth too wide.

 _Mm._ The demon leaned forward, licked at her neck, dusted with melting snow. Clara made no sound, only shifted, and bruised her wrists in attempting to twist her knives round. Then the soft licking ceased as the demon bit down and ripped away a bloody chunk of flesh.

"WHAT THE HELL, YOU DAMN BITCH?"

The demon smiled very sweetly at her and swallowed. _You're not just a pretty toy. I had a little apple once. I ate it and it was foam inside. You're a real toy, a juicy little thing._ She licked the bite, a soothing gesture if the wound had not been so raw and if she had not thrust her tongue deep inside, probing the torn nerves and meat.

"You're not going to kill me yet, are you?" Clara winced, but still smiling not quite sanely. "Find a better use for that tongue then, you demoness."

 _She thinks she's giving orders, heh._ _I like her, there's something about you._ The woman sucked her tongue in, in favor of pressing her entire mouth to the bite mark, framing it with a hot 'o' and sucking. Saliva dripped, burned. Clara snapped down on her exposed ear.

The demon jerked, a visible tear ripping cartilage and skin. She did not pull away though, breathing hotly down Clara's neck...and lower, icy fingers pinching and tearing clothing as she did so.

"...fu-fuck. GOD, AHH!"

_My realm. Hell is mine. I am strong here. Not gods, no gods reaching down here._

She burned, writhed even as the _demon_ coaxed an arch from her spine. Her fingers curled, spread, and her knives flashed. She snapped forward, beads of sweat plastering her hair against her skull, the now-cut strands of rope flying from her wrists. The demon, god, again, leapt back. What should have been a fatal set of gaping wounds only gouged her across the crown of her skull. Blood dripped in wandering streaks through her hair.

 _...I like you._ She laughed silently, lips pulled back from her teeth. When Clara drew her hand back and flung, she made no move to dodge this time. The woman wrapped her fingers around a dark hilt and pulled slowly outwards, bringing the knife to her mouth. Her tongue traced a thin trail of blood down the sharp edge.

 _Nothing in life is free. Except this one. Not free, I'll come again, a rare certainty._ Clara glared, yanking her clothes back into place, as the woman stood and flung the hunting knives back, one after the other. She caught each without looking, still watching warily as the demon shifted and lunged forward, wings outstretched. She slashed the air, whirling around as the doors slammed open with a crash.

The demon hovered, snow swirling around her. Blood stained her chest. She grinned madly. Both of them did; Clara couldn't help it, the corner ripping smile just taking over her face.

_I think we'll dance forever like this. A tango, we are. Your present, happy birthday._

The blur of red flew towards her face and Clara caught it instinctively. She stared and looked up sharply. The demon waved bye bye, a little rocking from the wrist, as if to a child, and fell backwards. Clara darted forward. The body was already sinking, dissolving in the hissing pit of lava.

Clara ran her tongue over one of her knives. She couldn't be sure, but she thought this was the same one. Maybe this was demon spit she tasted. Then she lifted the plump heart in her hand and sank her teeth in. Hot blood spurted.


	6. On Fine Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Nonconsensual sex. WARNING: Violence! Another of my friend's characters! And Angelica.

"Stay—" Angelica snarled and lunged forward. A torrent of rocks followed her fist. They crashed against her opponent with a clang and exploded into a flurry of dust against his metallic body. He looked completely unaffected. "—STILL."   
  
"Mortal, kindly—"  
  
"No, I will not desist, not until you and all your kind are burning where you belong, you filthy degenerate angels." She spat the word, viciously flinging her arm towards him and snapping.  
  
Caleb ducked the spray of acid that issued forth from her fingertips. "I assure you, I hold no animo—" He winced as a few stray droplets caught his shoulder and, despite his armored skin, burned their way through.  
  
"Stop moving!" Angelica shot towards him, hand outstretched into claw-like talons, acid oozing from her palm—  
  
He tried to be gentle; he really did, but it was hard to give a soft punch especially when one's fist was twice as large as it should be and made of steel. And even more so when the target was charging headlong into said fist.   
  
"F—" Angelica stumbled backwards, hand clutching at her face. Wildly, she snapped with her free hand. The ensuing spray of acid missed Caleb completely. She stepped backwards, hand still covering her eyes.   
  
"Look out!" Caleb reached for her right as she took another step backwards and fell into the ocean with a splash. He rushed to the edge, not very fast, seeing as he was entirely made out of metal at the moment and each step made the ground tremble with a muffled stomp. The waves splashed against the concrete. Another lost soul gone… To the right, beneath a pier, the water surged. He heard the sound of running footsteps and turned—  
  
"How does the acid feel?" she hissed. "Does it burn as much as the poison you spew with your tongue?" He grabbed at her, but she hung onto his face like a wildcat, grabbing onto his shoulder with the other hand. From that hand as well, oozed sickly looking acid that fizzled and sank into the shiny metal, leaving dark pits behind in the steel.   
  
Ok, maybe he panicked a bit. Slowly but surely, she was killing him. His armored form may protect him from some of the damage, but she doggedly chipped away at him. Angelica tightened her grip, dug her fingers into eyes and cheeks, though they didn't yield as flesh would. Puffs of breath pressed against her palm and she sneered. "Still think you can win? Or are those pleas for me to stop—"  
  
He whirled around and Angelica jerked as she felt wind rush past her. She held on grimly. That is, until something that felt like the size of a truck bashed her across the head. Her hand twitched and faltered even as stars flew across her field of vision and blood rushed to her mouth. Another crack against her head and her hand wrenched from Caleb's face as she flew across the pavement with the force of the blow.  
  
Caleb clutched his aching face and muttered another quick apology. Setting the telephone pole back carefully into its place, he made sure it would not topple over onto an unsuspecting pedestrian and approached cautiously. His caution was unneeded.  
  
Angelica moaned a little through broken bits of teeth and the shattered remnants of her skull. She clawed weakly at the ground. Caleb stood over her for several moments. His face was impassive. Only when all movement ceased from the woman did he take a deep breath and shrink in upon himself, metal giving way to skin, clothes stretched almost to their limit hanging loose once more.  
  
Moments later, he burst into a little house a few blocks over, not bothering to knock, only barely remembering to land and draw in his wings before smashing them against the doorframe. "ANSIEL."  
  
A harried, startled man flung open an inner door. "What? Caleb? What is it? What demon pursues you?"  
  
Caleb stooped, carefully lowering his burden to the floor. "No. Nothing like that. This woman requires your healing."  
  
Ansiel looked at him curiously before kneeling and inspecting the prone form. He gave no sign that he was disturbed by the amount of pulp and blood currently making up Angelica's face. "I see." He laid two fingers on her neck, neatly avoiding the splatters of red. His face contorted. He looked up in horror. "Caleb! Could you not feel it? The waves of malice reeking from this…thing? Her soul is stained completely black!"  
  
Caleb thought back, remembered the snarl on her face as she had attacked him, the ferocity with which she had spat out curses and taunts. "I…"  
  
His fellow angel stood, shaking his head. "I cannot bestow healing upon such a diabolic creature."  
  
"Cannot? Or will not." Caleb sighed. He had anticipated and feared this. "My brother. Allow me one of your potions then if your hands cannot perform the blessing. Look, I will even find whatever you name as a price for a bottle."  
  
"You…why are you aiding this being of evil?"  
  
"She's not evil," Caleb snapped sharply. He looked away when Ansiel glanced at him again, this time with less shock and considerably more wariness. "She's a lost soul. Is it not our duty to guide such mortals back to the light?"  
  
Ansiel pressed his hand to his eyes and he stood for a while as if lost in thought. Caleb shifted nervously. He outranked this shepherd yet it did no good to bully him, not that such an act would have sat well with Caleb's conscience in of itself, for he, Caleb, was dependent upon the angel for healing. Some of them were given hands of healing; others…hands to kill.   
  
"Very well. No, I require no payment, Caleb. …I hope you know what you're doing. God bless your flight, brother."  
  
"And your roof be bathed in eternal glory," Caleb answered automatically. He lifted the unconscious woman yet again and, with newly received potion in his possession, barely made it past the doorway before spreading his wings. Ansiel leaned against the wooden frame and watched the angel's silhouette until it was lost in the clouds.   
-  
One problem with resorting to using a potion as opposed to angelic healing was that potions have to be taken orally. Which became an issue when the patient's mouth was lost in a mess of cracked bone and tenderized flesh. He had to maneuver her broken jaw until he caught a glimpse of what he assumed was teeth, or what was left of them. And then he poured slowly, occasionally checking to see as best as he could if the draught was actually going down her throat and not just pooling in the back of her mouth. He didn't have much of a bedside manner, he had to admit; he wasn't built for a bedside manner. When you knit a being together so that they may transform into steel or titanium or fire at will, you don't expect them to go around fixing broken bones much.   
  
Hence, it came as a great relief when dark bruises began lightening in color and smashed flesh began resembling less something you might find in a butcher's store. Caleb tossed the empty bottle aside and absently acknowledged its smashing against the wall behind him. Less beaten up and less murderous, she…well, she was not beautiful. But she held intensity.  
  
Caleb brushed a finger along her arm and felt the unevenness where many striped scars littered the skin there. The price sorcerers paid for their arcane arts, he remembered.  
  
Abruptly, he stood and strode to the door, easing it open and listening. The night was still. Its occupants were not. The wood beside his ear split open. Caleb eyed it as the blade of shadow dissipated out of existence. He followed its example and dissolved as well, only into a whirl of flames. He waited, hovering. There. A pulse from the deep shadows. Swiftly, he called upon the heavenly host and the fire rained down.  
  
A howl of pain confirmed his suspicions. Without pause, he summoned again and again the fire that would cleanse the earth of evil, demonic forces. At last the fire burned away, leaving scorch marks on the sidewalk. Caleb hesitated before shedding the wreathes of flame composing his body and walking closer. Amidst the smoldering plastic trash bags lay a thoroughly charred corpse, gleaming blade still clutched in clawed hand. Caleb nodded and stepped backwards and closed the door. He took a deep breath before turning.  
  
The elementalist still slept, deep in slumber. Caleb stood over her for the longest time until the clouds began lightening to a less petulant color of grey.  
  
Angelica's fingers twitched. Caleb's eyes darted to hers, but seeing as hers remained closed and her chest still rose and fell steadily, he attributed the movement merely to her wandering in a dream. How wrong he was.  
  
She needed no melodramatic yell to announce her awakening. The earthquake did that job for her. Caleb stumbled as the ground rumbled and fine lines began splitting the floor. Angelica rose, fistful of acid raised and ready to throw. She missed completely.  
  
Caleb slammed her hands into the ground. He was well aware this would not prevent her from whispering to the earth, cajoling it to crush him to smithereens, but at least she wasn't able to melt his face with her magic like this.   
  
"Filth," she hissed in his face.  
  
He stared at her in fascination. The intensity flowing through her veins, already visible as she slept, now crackled tangibly. In an instant, it all made sense to him. She was the tempest. The acid in the rain, the roar of thunder echoing through the earth, the lightning. "Temptress," he whispered.   
  
Angelica stared at him. Then her eyes widened as she realized their proximity and the growing evidence of the angel's desire for her. "FUCK YOU," she screamed in his face. He shut her up with his mouth, and tasted the electricity, the static.  
  
She struggled against him and it was difficult to tell how much of her intentions were bent on escaping and killing bloodily, and how much was just… The earth never did stop shaking, trembling as he gave into whatever this was and slammed her against the floor in a very different way.  
  
The whole time she dragged tattered nails in most likely bloody scratches down his neck and back and snarled curses and threats.  
  
Really, it came as no surprise when he woke and found he couldn't move his arm. It was hard to move something that didn't exist.   
  
 _Do you choose to return?_  
  
He hesitated. His path, his ideals. Now that he was no longer in her presence, they came flooding back to him in a heartbeat that never arrived. The Limbo he was meant to be walking, his Word.  
  
Then came the memory of teeth clashing against his and a ragged scream in harmony with the crack of the earth. And, as he rushed to meet his body in a silent whoosh through nothingness, Caleb tasted the storm imminent in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to confess: when I wrote this five years ago, I thought this was a perfectly acceptable sexual encounter. It was very much written with the mindset that Angelica was secretly attracted to Caleb and therefore it wasn't rape. To my great shame now.
> 
> Reading it now, I cringe when I remember that, but I still like the story. I just like it now for different reasons, seeing it as the problematic encounter that it is. It makes the characters more interesting to me and the sequel to this fic also gains a different dynamic this way. (I still hold out foolish hope that that sequel will one day be its own multi-chaptered complete story, so I'm not posting it with these.) Caleb being clearly in the wrong, and having realised this by the time of the sequel, makes him a more interesting character. Angelica's rage at seeing him again in the sequel makes more sense, and her not being yet another tsundere-falling-for-the-male-deuteragonist also fleshes her out more.


	7. Our Separate Ways

She should kill him. She would kill him. She was just...savoring the moment.  
  
Oh, there was no question about it. Angelica herself had seen him consorting with angels, harboring little fledglings in his shelter, with silent winged companions by his side. He was no divine being himself, but he aided them and he walked as one with them.  
  
It would be a tough battle. He was a strong and able Lich, for once without his skeletal army, having left them behind to protect the  _children_  probably. But he could conjure more. There were corpses scattered everywhere; for world's sake, she'd just walked by a dead Myrmidon, with a face livid in death and undergarments hanging him from the lamp post. He had all the fuel he needed to magically peel flesh from skeleton, breathe life and stitch invisible sinew into the rattling bones. She could probably kill him, burn his bubbling skin away before he could even contemplate moving. And if he did manage to summon reinforcements, well, they would fall as soon as their master did. If she could take him by surprise, and, that, she definitely could manage...  
  
"Hello Angelica."  
  
She started. Her hand clenched, fingers digging into the fabric of her jeans. For a moment, she said nothing, words colliding and choking in her throat. "...hi."  
  
"You look well."  
  
"You look at Death's door as usual."  
  
He grinned rotten gums at her. "That's a good sign."  
  
A silence lay between them. In the distance, the sound of gunfire, but neither of them moved.  
  
"How've you been doing, Angelica?"  
  
"I..." I've slaughtered countless heretics. I took their lies dripping with foul poison and tore them into shivering wretched pieces. But I'm not done yet. They keep coming back, and more are born every day. And you help foster those newborns. And now you die, old man. "I'm alive."  
  
"I can see that." Another pause. "We've missed you. It hasn't been quite the same without you."  
  
Angelica snapped down savagely on her inner lip until she felt the flesh give way between her teeth. "Not enough girls to run your errands anymore?"  
  
"More than enough. They just don't quite have your eye for the shine of treasure amongst trash."  
  
Acid oozed from her fingers, hissing as it soaked through her jeans into her thigh. She kept her body rigid, banishing the flinch of pain that begged to be released. "You have to get back, don't you?"  
  
"Angelica..." He closed his mouth, swallowing back whatever it was he had been about to say.  
  
She took the brunt of the uncomfortableness, turning on her heel rudely and stalking away.  
  
"You know you're always welcome home..."  
  
Home. I have no home. She ground her teeth together. First things first, she would hunt down the next feathered humanoid she saw and fry his eyes inside his own head. And then she'd scoop them out and make him eat them. And then maybe this idiotic knot in her chest would give way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Angelica.


	8. * MERCY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's comment while writing this story:  
> "Wow, it’s really difficult trying to figure out what sort of epiphany a character who can’t feel any positive emotions for anyone else could come to regarding friendship and family."
> 
> Featuring Flowey. Flowey the Flower.

Nights in Laurentia were seldom quiet and never still. There was often the occasional gasp or a scream or a dying gurgle to punctuate the steady lapping of the waves on the shore of King's Island or the crickets chirping in Cimmeria. There was always, at all times, a Void Walker or Revenant skulking in the shadows, taking advantage of the lack of sunlight to spot the silhouettes of those foolish enough to be moving around in lit buildings. There was always an odd Defiler or Pariah opening their eyes and casting their gaze about as they flexed their hands and claws to ensure that, yes, they were indeed still alive, before they prowled into the night, ducking into alleyways to avoid their betters, and hungrily searching for anyone wearing too little armor and too much intact flesh. They slipped into apartments and emerged no more satiated, wiping or licking the still-warm mortal blood from their faces. Sometimes, they nearly collided with a brave mortal outside the door. The mortal might get ahold of their bearings first and flee. Or they might not. Sometimes, they clutched their pistol, fire axe, rocks tighter and stood their ground.

There was one such mortal now, on the doorstep of the Sunrise Public Library. He brandished a well-maintained shotgun at the grinning shadowy figure looming over him, but his weapon was shaking along with his hands. The fight would not last long.

The sounds of gunfire and then tearing flesh rang out throughout the neighborhood. Across the street from the library, flowers in the nearby park swayed as if in time with the sounds of the slaughter. A particularly striking flower, with petals of a vibrant gold color, seemed to flutter as the sound of an empty magazine echoed damningly loud, once, then twice and three times as the owner of the gun pulled the trigger in panicked denial. The desperate sounds ceased as the Void Walker tired of playing with her prey and tore his throat out in one bored swoop.

The golden flower stilled in its movements, despite the continued swaying of the floral entities surrounding it. In a slow motion, decidedly ungoverned by the breeze, it turned its head.

The Void Walker wiped her claws against the wall and then proceeded to slide through the same wall into the library.

Flowey--for that was the flower's name, perhaps uncreative though it might be--took the opportunity to duck into the ground and re-emerge a block away. He looked behind him, confirming that there was no ominous shadow tracking his movements. Figures were moving in the library windows. Steam was rising off the corpse on the doorstep.

A grin cracked open where his cheeks would have been, and the whites of his eyes seemed to blacken for a moment, before he swiftly turned back around and dove underground once more. It took him several "jumps" like this to reach the beach and by the time he managed to drag himself onto the waiting ferry by his teeth, he was panting with the exertion. But no matter. After the ferry ride, it wasn't far from the dock to his new home.

Home. There was a strange thought. When he'd first woken up in this strange world, he'd committed himself to wandering without a home, as always. Creatures like him, they didn't have homes; never mind that stupid human who had been determined to make him think otherwise. Well, Frisk wasn't here now. Who knows what had happened to them? At least whatever force had cast him into this world, it didn't seem to have brought Frisk along. Good riddance. Frisk wouldn't have lasted a minute in this world. Then again, it would have been amusing to watch Frisk walk up to, say, an Infernal Behemoth and try to hug it into submission.

Not that that meant there was a sudden lack of naïvely merciful humans in his life. Flowey rested his head in his leaves as he watched the ferry begin to pull away from the dock. He couldn't understand these people, these...idiots. Sure, there had been a whole slew of creatures of all shapes and sizes, but like him, oh, so much like him, in their murderous intentions, to the point where it was a shock the few times he woke up to see anything other than the nothingness of the void. Children tearing him apart with their bare hands, determined to gain more LOVE, and twisted abominations who could gain no more LOVE, but killed him anyway for the sheer pleasure of it. That, that, he understood, and for a while, he thought he understood this world. That here was somewhere he understood at last, where someone like him belonged. His perfect world where it was kill or be killed, without any peaceful flower-hugging children to confuse him.

Except it just couldn't be that simple, could it?

First, there had been that strange four-legged thing whose face had looked almost familiar in its resemblance to his m--to the queen and king of the Underground. He'd woken up in the middle of the night to find it standing over him, and he'd waited to see how he would die this time. To his surprise, the thing had _recognised_ him and addressed him by name before ambling over to a stack of newspapers to begin chewing on them. What further flummoxed him was that it had then nudged two books over to him, cheerfully encouraged him to "KILL OR BE KILLED, my friend," and then wandered out the door. Of course, two hours later, he'd woken up yet again to the feeling of a mortal stomping him into the ground, but that had been normal. That, he’d understood.

What he hadn’t understood had been the graffiti he’d seen, dragging himself into another library and looking up to see his name scrawled on the wall in chalk. Then the odd envelope he'd woken up to one day (as if being able to wake up at all wasn't already a surprise in of itself), smelling very dubious and with suspicious stains all over it. He'd finally opened it after prodding at it with a stick for a while, and it had been a cheerful invitation to join some goody two-shoes faction so long as he wasn't planning to turn demonic upon gaining 10 LOVE. He'd found a pen amidst the midst in the library and, after scribbling a scathing reply on the back of the letter, left the letter and envelope there, not really caring if the original writer found it or if a ghoul ate it.

Much to his surprise, he had woken up again a few days later to find a different envelope balanced delicately between two of his petals. After flailing his head to cause the offending thing to fall and snarling in all directions to find no sign of the culprit, he'd finally opened this letter as well to find an undaunted reply from the same writer, saying, why, yes, it would be rather unfortunate if Flowey did eventually turn demonic and ripped them all to pieces, but in the meantime, they had a nice spot of dirt that he could stay in and he knew Flowey had read and burned every book in the Underground, but they were settled close to a library that probably had many books Flowey hadn't read if that sounded appealing at all. To this, Flowey had shot back (alas, not literally), asking if this imbecile's faction knew one of their members was blithely inviting monsters into their home and, golly, you must really want me to kill all those goody-two-shoes, are you sure you belong in a good faction, YOU IDIOT?

A few days later, there was no envelope, but simply a folded sheet of paper propped against one of his leaves that, when he unfolded it, stated that they were all looking forward to having him, if he consented to staying even for a little while, and that they'd made sure to tell the swarm of bees living there that pollinating him was not allowed.

He'd been at a loss for words. He'd still been when he found himself sitting outside of the brightly lit building that had a garishly painted sign declaring it to as "SUGARCUBE CORNER." Curiosity, he'd told himself as he finally lowered his eyes and dragged himself across the threshold. I just want to see what sort of idiots would be stupid enough to invite me to live with them. He'd plastered on a sickeningly sweet demeanor when he'd entered and all eyes had turned towards him, but in introducing himself, he very quickly let that facade slip, grin growing wide and sinister as he'd very unsubtly alluded to his true goals once he had gained enough LOVE again to be able to actually accomplish those goals.

A...soap bar had presented him with a pristine shotgun and then sniffed his petals. A swarm of bees had circled him and buzzed all the while, somehow conveying curiosity despite its lack of speech. The neon pink...horse had...bounced over to him, tugging him over to this corner and that, showing him the communal safe and his own "super duper private" locker and the patch of dirt they'd specially prepared for him and then, at that point, he'd managed to slip away as something else had caught the horse's attention and he'd retreated before she could remember his existence. He'd curled himself around his new shotgun in bewilderment and avoided thinking too hard about this whole mad situation by settling into comfortingly familiar trains of thought of all the people he could kill with this new way to dispense bullets at lethal speeds.

Over the next few days, he'd watched from the shadows as they celebrated one of their own becoming a Seraph, warned each other about enemies outside, made bad jokes, planned odd-sounding parties. And each day, he woke up to a ring of books placed carefully around him. There were indeed many books that had not been in the Underground and, therefore, which he had never read, although he wasn't about to admit that to that hobo, who, it turns out, had been the one to invite him here. But he read the books, and when the piles next to him shrank to nothing, he'd venture outside to the library that was indeed right next door to find more to lug back home.

There was that word again. Flowey shook his head free of dirt and looked up at the building in front of him, a sense of deja vu settling over him. Yesterday, he'd been pretending to doze in the corner when a large group of them had prepared to leave for a "party." By now, he'd worked out that their parties involved raiding other factions and slaughtering them all to steal their flags. That was another thing that was taking getting used to. Unlike in the Underground, it seemed the ability to SAVE didn't exist at all here, but instead every single person in this world possessed the ability to RESPAWN. But that just meant there were even fewer consequences in terms of killing and dying, although the tradeoff was every single person remembered everything that had ever happened to them. He was no longer special in that regard. But also no longer alone. It was harder to be bored when he had essentially an endless supply of playthings whom he could kill and who could kill him back if they so chose. And, oh, so many of them did. Except these ones.

He'd watched with slitted eyes as they'd packed their things. Bottles containing various potions, weapons, armor. The pink one had a bright blue cannon with her, which she somehow managed to stuff into a satchel that seemed far too small to contain it.

Then, just as they had been about to head out the door, he'd heard footsteps approaching and quickly closed his eyes. There had come a soft pat on his petals and the hobo had whispered, "I wonder if he needs watering. Or food. Does anyone know what flowers eat?"

An uncertain buzzing had come from the opposite corner of the room.

"Well, I have some preserved meat, vegetable soup, strawberries, a lime, a peach, a pear, some blood ice, some soul ice... I guess I'll ask when we get back." Another touch against his petals and then footsteps, leading away from his this time, and the hobo's voice had faded away as they'd headed out. The door had slammed shut behind them and he'd heard a shout and a party horn from outside. He'd been about to raise his head and look around when another sound, steadily increasing in volume, had made him freeze. The buzzing had been getting closer.

He didn't have his magic anymore, or at least, not the "friendliness pellet-y" kind; the passage to this world had stripped him of that. But he'd stiffened, ready to dive underground and flee if so much as one of that swarm of pests touched him. The sound of buzzing had become overwhelmingly loud. Then, he'd felt something settle very gently on one of his petals, something that was decidedly not a bee trying to pollinate him, before the buzzing had backed away and dwindled to a faint hum from the other side of the room once more.

He'd opened his eyes then and, after some failed attempts at contorting himself, had finally given up and gone in search of a reflective surface. A still somewhat-intact mirror above a sink in the kitchen had revealed that there was now a bandage on one of his petals, almost, but not completely, covering the hole in it. He'd forgotten about that. (Which seemed absurd in retrospect given the nature of how he'd received the hole in the first place: from one of his books suddenly deciding to grow _tentacles_ and attack him with them. Then again, he'd been very quickly distracted by the sudden arrival of a hulking monstrous _clown_ that he'd had to skirt around very carefully as it had stalked through the library. This world was insane.)

He’d stared silently at his reflection. Then he’d skulked back into the main area of the restaurant and grabbed a book with his mouth. The makeshift projectile had only served to disperse the swarm of bees briefly and caused them to buzz in alarm at him, but it had made him feel...well, not better precisely. It was hard to distinguish between feeling better or worse without a soul. It had amused him though. And then, still clinging to that small spark of malicious glee, he’d folded his petals in on his face and fallen asleep.

And had woken up to the sound of someone--or rather, several someones--knocking on the ward protecting the stronghold. Flowey had raised his head and looked around, realising that none of the raiders had returned from their ‘party.’ There had been a distinct lack of buzzing from the bees’ usual corner: asleep or outside then. The newly-ascended Seraph had been an unmoving shadow beside the door, possibly asleep as well.

He had scrabbled his way up to the windowsill and peeked outside. Golly. One giant shadow had obviously been an Infernal Behemoth. From the way they had been gnawing at the ward, two others were Revenants. A fourth shadow wielding what had looked to be a shotgun remained anonymous. And as Flowey had watched, a small flittering shape had dropped from the sky and landed as a fully humanoid-sized being. Another Revenant.

Flowey had sat there, frozen with indecision. As fun as the thought of killing them all had been, he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t anywhere near powerful enough in this world yet. They had all been armored and all he had had on him was a regular shotgun and no powers with which to enhance his bullets. He might have been able to take down any Revenants who had been stupid enough to not wear armor, but the Behemoth would have shrugged off any bullets and then ripped his head off his stem faster than he could have said, “Kill or be killed.” And who knew what type of being that unidentified figure was? It had been clear that putting up any sort of resistance would have been futile. Pointless.

The ward had dissolved in a silent burst of light. The Behemoth had lumbered its way towards the open door of their stronghold. Their standard had been, and he'd known this, a lost cause. He should have leapt out the window and hidden until the raid had finished and the raiders had all fallen asleep or left. Death didn’t stick in this world, but being ripped to shreds still _hurt_.

It _had_ hurt. Flowey glanced up at the window that, only a few hours ago, he’d been peering out of. His corpse might even still be in there if a Lich hadn’t made off with it already. At least these raiders hadn’t had any interest in toying with him. A few shotgun blasts to the face and then a clawed hand ripping his face off and that had been it, but he had had the satisfaction of seeing two very surprised Revenants and that Wizard hit the floor with _hilarious_ expressions frozen on their faces.

Flowey stared at the doorway He hadn’t had enough energy to return from the void immediately. But in the nothingness, he had waited impatiently for that strange ripping sensation that came with the demolishing of their stronghold. And it hadn’t come. He’d crowed about it as much as he was able with no physical form, before realising that, one, there was no one around to appreciate or be annoyed by his gloating, and, two, as fun as it had been to ambush those idiots and prevent them from carrying out a successful raid, it meant he had also helped keep those idiot members of his faction safe as well. Which wasn’t comfortable to think about. He’d sulked for a while after that.

Flowey stared at the doorway some more. He wasn’t...scared to go in. Ha. Why would he be scared? He could take anything those idiots could dish out--alright, fine, if he were honest with himself, if any one of them got the drop on him, they could easily rip him apart before he could even fire a single shot. And he probably couldn’t take the petmasters even on his best days, even if he drugged them beforehand. But what was the worst they could do to him, KILL HIM? HA.

Still, he didn’t move. He didn’t want to go in. He wanted instead to turn around and run, well, in a manner of speaking, to the farthest corner of the farthest plane, and just sit there for the rest of however long it took for this world to get sucked into nonexistence. That sounded like a better and better idea by the second, actually.

There was a distant memory he had of looking up at someone (he wouldn’t think about them he wouldn’t think about them), someone walking towards him, slow and deliberate, smiling down at him. There was another distant memory he had of looking up at someone, someone standing there looking down at him, just looking and looking, looking and not moving.

He thought about burying himself in the most remote ice patch of Stygia, maybe popping out every so often to splatter the blood of whatever idiot ventured out there against the frozen ground. That had been his plan, hadn’t it? When he’d first woken up here, disoriented and magicless. Creatures like him, that’s what they were meant for. Living under bridges, in abandoned castles, in the most forsaken corner of hell. Not in a restaurant that constantly smelled like baked pastries with stupid idiots who constantly paraded him around and built him hives and shoved unnecessary food in his mouth and couldn’t get it through their stupid thick skulls that he couldn’t FEEL ANYTHING FOR THEM, THE IDIOTS.

“Floweybean!”

Flowey stiffened and all disinclination towards action vanished. He dove into the ground, headfirst, and screamed into the dirt when he felt something grip his stem and pull. He continued screaming as the soap bar placed him on its head and swooped through the doorway.

“Ok, now you have to say, ‘I’m flying, Soap!’ as the music swells!”

“I’LL KILL YOU, YOU SOAPY IDIOT.”

“Just push him off the raft when the ship sinks,” someone called from amidst the horde of Judgemasters and sprites.

A chorus of buzzes.

“Wait, isn’t Soap the Titanic here though?”

“Alas, Rosey beanflower, our great love was denied by James Cameron! Leonardo Dicaprio was in on the conspiracy to drive that iceberg straight through my tender ship's heart!”

“I HATE YOU ALL IHATEYOUIHATEYOUI’MGONNAKILLYOUSOMUCH--”

In a distant corner of Stygia, an undisturbed patch of ice and snow lay forgotten. Except for the continual howling wind, all was quiet and still.


End file.
